


WILD ONE

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Community
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it wasn't for Jeff's pounding headache, he would never have knocked on the Dean's door. He's not sure what to blame for the rest of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WILD ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by runpunkrun.

_Hey I heard you were a wild one_  
Oooh  
If I took you home  
It'd be a home run  
Show me how you'll do… 

If Jeff’s head hadn’t been about to burst, he never would have knocked on the Dean’s door. But the “Wild One” song was an earworm that needed to die, and quickly, so he rapped his knuckles wearily on his neighbor’s door.

Once it opened, he wasn’t standing in the doorway so much as being dragged inside, and the Dean had that strangled-happy look on face that said _Jeff Winger knocked on my Dean, I mean door._

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” The Dean purred. “And by pleasure I mean…”

“Yes, I know what you mean, I can hear the whimpering through the walls every night. I came to ask you to turn the music Dean. Down. Dammit!”

“Of _course_ you did, silly. Just let me slip into something more comfortable.”

The Dean was wearing boxer shorts and a worn silk kimono. His five o’clock shadow was in late Saturday night mode. Jeff couldn’t envision what more comfortable would entail, but it would probably take a long time and be visually scarring. “Just turn the music down, okay?” He backed toward the door, which had magically shut behind him.

“It will only take a second,” the Dean said brightly. “Make yourself at home. Would you like something from the bar? A dirty mar-DEAN-i? Shaken _and_ stirred?” The Dean tittered and Jeff’s head pounded insistently against his temples.

“No!” Jeff shouted. The Dean looked taken aback. “I mean. No, no thank you. Just turn the music down and unlock the door. Please.”

“But I make the best martinis,” the Dean said, his over-modulated voice hitting the high notes.

“Do not pout. It is unseemly.” Jeff put on his lawyer-voice in retaliation. He tried to remain calm. He thought about having conversations with Britta about her period, with Annie about societal norms, with Troy about Troy, with Pierce about… “Oh _to hell with it_. If you don’t turn the music down I won’t have a martini. I prefer a lemon twist instead of olive. Top-shelf gin if you’ve got it. And I hope you don’t so I can go home.”

“Bombay martini, lemon twist, coming right up!” The Dean said gleefully and he disappeared between the dangling strands of pearls that hung in the doorway to his bedroom. Jeff shuddered at the thought of the Dean’s _boudoir._

“Absolutely no costume changes!” Jeff shouted at him.

“Make yourself at home!” the Dean shouted back.

“Why are you in the bedroom when your kitchen is out here?” Why was he shouting? That wasn’t helping his head one bit. He glared at the couch and accepted the inevitable. He’d sit, but he absolutely would not make himself at home. “Bring me some Advil, wouldya?”

“Oh, do you have aches and pains? I can massage…”

“No.”

“Cook you some…”

“No.”

“Advil then,” the Dean said in his monotone voice, the one he used to end conversations or deal with bureaucracy. He emerged triumphantly from between the pearl strands, which Jeff could now see were slightly frayed at the ends, the faux pearls worn to plastic in places. “MarDeanis ahoy!”

“Thanks,” Jeff said, gingerly accepting the bright pink martini glass and bottle of Advil from the Dean. The music had magically gone quieter and surprisingly, the Dean wasn’t wearing lingerie, a strappy sundress, Kabuki makeup or capris and a crop-top, so Jeff nearly choked on the first sip in surprise. When the Dean handed him a glass of water from his spare, but clean kitchenette, Jeff’s eyebrows went up.

“What? I can be a decent hostess, you know,” the Dean said.

“Yes, thank you,” Jeff said. Then on impulse, “You know you don’t need all those silly costumes and ridiculous slogans involving the word DEAN.”

“InDean I do! Ha. Well. I’m sorry, what?” The Dean’s head whipped around as he pranced back to the kitchenette. “You’re saying I shouldn’t be Dean?”

“I’m saying there’s probably more to you than the Dean.” Jeff took a huge swallow of his drink, praying that three Advil would do the trick, and quickly. He had homework – oh wait, no he didn’t. He had some serious television watching to do, and he wasn’t going to get stuck in this place for more than 10, maybe 15 minutes. It was a really good martini.

“Well, yes, there’s a lot more to me,” the Dean said. He sauntered back over toward the couch, where Jeff was perched precariously, his feet prepared to launch him out the door on a dime. “I had a childhood.”

“Fascinating,” Jeff said, taking another swallow. “Do tell.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to unravel that ugly ball of yarn. It was the usual: bullied, bullied, bullied. Poor grades, bullied, glee club, bullied, recess, bullied.”

“Wow, I’m sorry,” Jeff said. He cringed when he realized he’d never once thought about the Dean as a child and whether or not he even had parents. “Your parents?”

“Not an issue,” the Dean said, waving his hand.

“This is really good,” Jeff said, wanting desperately to change the subject. The look on the Dean’s face was enough to make him want another drink. Thinking of his own parents, he downed the rest of the martini. The Dean plucked it from his lax fingers and danced off. “Wait, I gotta go,” Jeff slurred.

“Have another, it won’t kill you. I can tell you more about how I went from bullied boy to Dean of Greendale.”

“As long as there aren’t any costumes,” Jeff said. He sat more comfortably on the couch. The Dean wasn’t such a bad neighbor after all. In spite of the peephole in his bathroom that probably gave him an excellent view of Jeff’s crotch during his morning ministrations. He had to remember to tell the Dean he was going to spackle that up. Spackle. Such a funny word.

“Here you go, Jeff,” the Dean trilled. “Don’t be mad, I put on a little lipgloss. Every girl needs a little something.” The Dean had straw-heeled, yellow plastic wedges on as well and Jeff sighed, setting the martini glass down on the coffee table after taking a big swig.

“Sit down,” he said sternly. The Dean giggled and wiggled his butt, settling carefully on what had to be the ugliest couch ever purchased. Wine-red and covered with crocheted throw pillows. Jesus. “I told you,” Jeff said. “No costume changes, and that includes lipstick.” Jeff yanked the Dean’s legs up one by one and pulled off the offensive five-inch wedges, throwing them as hard as he could against the wall. The Dean squeaked as each one thumped.

“You’re cracking my plaster and ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes! Zappos won’t take them back now!”

“Shut up,” Jeff growled. He felt a little angry at the thought of the Dean insisting on silly things like lip gloss and getting bullied for it, rather than just leaving well enough alone. Sure, the lip gloss was pretty, it brought out a slight color in the Dean’s cheeks and was far more natural than his Chiquita face or god forbid, his _Carmen_. But he didn’t _need_ it. Why did he insist on it? Jeff reached over and rubbed the heel of his hand against the Dean’s mouth.

“Jeffrey! Mmmmph! Excuse you!”

“Just. Knock it off.”

“Does it offend your homophobic masculinity?” The Dean began a pout but Jeff could also see he was slightly unnerved by what Jeff had done.

“No, it… Look. I just want you to feel, for once, that you can be yourself. If not around me, then find someone who you can just _be_ with.”

“Jeffrey.” The Dean’s face went serious. “I didn’t know you cared. I mean, I really didn’t. I’m not saying that sarcastically. I know you really don’t, but it’s nice of you to care in general about another human being which in this moment happens to be me.”

“That makes no sense.”

“What you probably don’t understand, is that this _is_ me. I’m The Dean.”

Jeff stared at him, shiny color smudged across his mouth and cheek, over toward his ear. Some of his stubble was going grey.

“No, no you’re not.” Jeff looked down at the matching smudge on his hand before curling it into a fist. “You’re Craig.”

“Do I even look like a Craig?”

“Not really. But you’re a person. Not a mannequin.”

“I’m… I’m…” the Dean seemed to struggle with that and Jeff was glad, suddenly, to have made a connection. He was also relieved that the Dean didn’t just take his words and turn them into empty flirtation.

“I’d enjoy seeing you in a suit,” Jeff said, before brain could catch up with mouth. “Not a clown suit or anything like that, but a nice, expensive suit.”

“Like I’d wear on a date, if we ever had one,” the Dean offered brightly.

“Don’t push it. But yeah.”

“I have a… a suit like that. I haven’t worn it in years, it’s still in a dry cleaning bag.” The Dean frowned. “I’ve kept my girlish figure, so it must still fit.”

Jeff swallowed more of his martini, and it went down far too smoothly. His stomach felt settled, his head was beginning to unclench and he felt… fine. Happy, in fact. He was almost having fun. With the Dean.

“Put it on,” Jeff encouraged.

“Um. Okay,” the Dean said uncertainly. “I thought you said no costume changes.”

“And you said that was part of who you are, so let’s call it a compromise.”

The Dean disappeared behind the pearl curtain again and Jeff got a glimpse of the Dean’s tiny bedroom. There were the requisite number of feather boas draped around, a winding pathway through a multitude of shoeboxes and sadly, a lone twin bed with plain white sheets. Jeff inwardly cringed.

“Um… Jeff?” the Dean called out. “The least you can do is tie this damn tie for me.”

“Nice one,” Jeff said. But he got up and parted the pearl curtain anyway. “You know perfectly well how to tie a tie, you wear one nearly every day.”

“This one is nicer though,” the Dean said, almost shyly. He stood in the entrance to his bedroom, a full-length mirror opposite on the back of the bathroom door. He had on a dark navy pinstripe suit that was okay, not amazing, but not horrid. Jeff gave a quick appraisal of it and of the white shirt beneath with actual cuffs. The tie he had on was wider than he usually wore, 100% silk, with light and dark grey colors and deep blue circles. He had tied it too tight and without creating a dimple in the middle. Jeff would do it justice.

“Ermenegildo Zenga,” Jeff murmured, turning the tie over to check the label. “Not bad.”

“I got it on sale,” the Dean apologized. “It does bring out my eyes, though.” He peered around Jeff to look in the mirror. “I think a cherry wig would be perfect.”

“A wig,” Jeff said. He was dubious, but the idea was not completely off the table. Holding both ends of the tie, he scrutinized the situation. “Turn around, I have to do this as if I was putting it on myself.” The Dean obliged and Jeff stepped up behind him. Well, if he wasn’t giving the Dean enough material to fantasize about for months, then he was a monkey’s uncle. “Hold still.”

“Just don’t garrote me please,” the Dean said.

“Tempting.”

“Tempting,” the Dean repeated. He probably wasn’t talking about being garroted.

“There you go,” Jeff said hurriedly, albeit straight into the Dean’s ear. “Turn around, let me see.” The Dean looked abashed, but his eyes met Jeff’s. “Let’s try the red wig and some lipstick.”

“What?”

“Quick, before I change my mind.”

The Dean dashed into the bathroom, a cozy space filled with a lot of candles and scented oils. Makeup was scattered around in little jars. The Dean quickly ripped down a picture taped to the wall. Jeff pretended it wasn’t a picture of him. A red wig appeared from a cabinet and was plopped on the Dean’s head. Jeff left momentarily to retrieve his martini glass, then leaned against the doorframe to watch the proceedings.

“Lipstick: red or pink?” the Dean asked.

“Red. But it has to match with the wig, and your complexion.” No way was Jeff going to admit to wearing the occasional lip tint.

“Eyeliner?”

“Nah. Unless you want to put some on me, I look really good in eyeliner.”

“Yes, yes you do.” The Dean was near breathless by this point, but he managed to brush out the wig and apply a near perfect shade of lipstick and then he even kept a steady hand as he applied dark blue eyeliner to Jeff’s eyes. Jeff was leaning in, feeling boozy and warm, and incredibly appreciative to the Dean for not only giving him a fun evening, but for keeping his hands to himself. Maybe there was hope for Craig after all.

“Et Voila!” the Dean squealed loudly.

Jeff opened his eyes. Well, damn, he looked great. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long minute, then his eyes fell back to the Dean. He reached out and straightened the wig, tucking the shorter strands behind the Dean’s ears. It was gathered in a loose bun at the back and when paired with the suit, was fairly flattering in a “hot librarian” sort of way. “Wait, one more thing,” Jeff said. He picked up the Dean’s glasses from the sink and put them on him. Okay. He could work with this.

Jeff ran his thumb along the Dean’s upper lip where a tiny bit of lipstick had strayed from its course.

“Jeffrey,” the Dean said.

“Craig,” Jeff said. It was the easiest thing in the world to lean in and kiss him, so he did. It was meant to be… well, whatever it was, but Jeff’s lips lingered too long and dammit, the marDeani had totally gone to his head and was now going to his dick. And Craig’s lips were soft and supple and not at all what Jeff had expected. He’d expected some sort of stabbing tongue and drooling – which usually happened when Jeff gave in to a pity fuck with someone who worshipped him. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A pity fuck. A pity kiss. With tongue.

Jeff dove in, pushing the Dean against the tiles, forcing him to open his mouth and he generously tongue-fucked him. The Dean was making a lot of sounds, some of them squeaks, and some of them deep-throated encouragement. It was the latter that seemed to be affecting Jeff so much. The Dean’s hands came up to his face and just as Jeff was about to grind his erection against his co-conspirator in this Game of Throats; the Dean pulled Jeff’s face off of him.

“Jeff. This isn’t… it’s okay. You don’t have to do this.”

“What?”

“A pity fuck. It’s okay. I thought that’s what I wanted, but I actually want to be friends even more. I can’t believe I’m saying this, who am I?” The Dean seemed actually puzzled by the question.

“What if it wasn’t a pity fuck,” Jeff said levelly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, who the fuck am _I?_ Did you put something in my drink? You know the date rape drug is illegal and I’m a lawyer.”

“You’re a student.”

“Even worse. I could ruin you.”

“You already have,” the Dean said, his mouth turning down, his smudged lipstick making him look clownish. And why did that give Jeff a pang in his chest?

“No date rape drugs, Jeff. Bombay sapphire, lemon twist. And me.”

“First,” Jeff said, because he wanted to get it straight, so to speak. “This is not a pity fuck. Or if it is, it’s because I want it, too, which makes it not a pity fuck.” The Dean looked confused, then nodded his head. “Second. You do not speak of this to anyone. I have a reputation to uphold and I need to graduate without distractions. I will deny it and make your life hell if you show up to school on Monday in a wedding dress. Are we clear?”

The Dean nodded again, and god help him, he believed him.

“Bedroom?” Jeff asked. The Dean nodded again and Jeff was pushing him forward, pulling him back, kissing him earnestly and moving him toward the bed. “Let me,” he said, as the Dean’s hands moved to his tie. Jeff fumbled, because damn, he was too good at tying ties, and the dimple finally gave way. He carefully removed the Dean’s jacket and shoes – he kind of hoped to see _them_ on Monday – and then unbuttoned the shirt. He supposed it was all right that he had a secret desire to sleep with a tough redhead who was a CEO or something, and he could rationalize all day if he needed to. Instead he kissed the Dean’s flat chest and reached up a hand to unwind the bun, letting the long red hair of the wig fall.

“Oh god, this is a dream, this is a dream, let it never end,” the Dean chanted.

“Shut up.”

“I love it when you manhandle me.”

“Shut up!”

“Oh god!”

“Do I have to gag you?” Jeff was yanking off the Dean’s pants and it was getting close to the point of no return. “Hey, I have an idea – put your mouth to better use.” It was like these words were just coming out of his mouth and he had no idea why. Or how to stop them.

The Dean dropped to his knees like a pro and Jeff’s jeans were around his ankles in seconds. Jeff stripped off his t-shirt and flexed his muscles. The Dean squeaked and tried to take his time, goofing around with Jeff’s boxer shorts and rubbing his hands up Jeff’s thighs.

“Get on with it, Craig,” Jeff said. His cock was suddenly freed from his boxers and swallowed tip to root, and _he_ nearly choked with the sensation. The Dean had no such issues; clearly his gag reflex had been dismantled along with his common sense. The man had _suction_ , and Jeff gasped and panted and tried to stay upright. The Dean’s hands were all over his balls and he wanted to tell him to knock _that_ right off, but somehow he couldn’t. It felt too good.

Jeff reached down and touched the wig. He flexed his fingers in the fake hair and tried vainly to pretend it was a woman giving him the best blowjob of his life. Yep, it failed, and it was a stupid plan anyway. He slid the wig off the Dean and then grabbed him by his scrawny biceps and pulled him up. The Dean’s mouth was red from blurred lipstick and from being around his cock. Jeff pulled the Dean’s glasses off and pushed him down on the bed. He kissed him again, brushing against his beard, biting his earlobe.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, but I imagine I’ll still be the best you’ve ever had,” Jeff said. “How about you get all the necessary things done and I’ll take a break.” Jeff didn’t want to admit that he needed to climb down from his urge to come so he didn’t embarrass himself. He could have just spurted down the Dean’s throat but he’d come this far. In fact, he wanted to see what it was like, to fuck another man. He’d come close, sort of, a few times. He was, of course, sexy to all genders.

The Dean scrambled around and finally came up with what looked like condoms and lube, slightly dusty and covered with glitter and feathers as if they’d fallen into a black hole of disuse. Jeff had collapsed back on the bed in a cramped sprawl, and the Dean pounced on him in short order, spreading the condom on with practiced ease and then squirting lube everywhere with barely concealed excitement.

“Easy there, Boogie Nights,” Jeff said. The Dean smiled -- _really smiled_ \-- and it suddenly felt like they were friends sharing a hilarious moment. Jeff smiled back. They both lubed up their hands and fingers and then it was exploration time. They felt each other up in fairly intimate ways and Jeff kept smiling the whole time because it was fun. Weird, but fun.

“Okay, you don’t have to look at this bit,” the Dean said. He got up on his knees and reached behind. Jeff looked away delicately, then his eyes strayed back to the Dean’s face. The blissed out pleasure there was pretty damn erotic.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jeff said. The Dean’s eyes flew open. “Might be cool if you just rode me.”

“I think I’m gonna pass out,” the Dean said, faking a swoon.

“Not before I come,” Jeff warned. The Dean straddled him quickly and before Jeff could think about it, he sank down. “Oh, jesus, what. How. Fuck.”

“I’ve rendered you dumbstruck,” the Dean crowed. “Just you wait.” He began to grind in Jeff’s lap and each movement of his hips pushing Jeff’s cock inside him was frankly unbelievable.

“Can’t. Believe. I’ve never done this before.”

“Maybe you just hadn’t met the right Dean.”

“ _Craig._ ”

“Fuck me, Jeffrey.”

After that, Jeff lost control. Of his body, his mind, whatever. Britta would have a field day with this. If she ever found out. His hips snapped up and his head rolled back and the Dean was riding him like a champion stallion, no like a bucking bronco, no… whatever. He was amazing. His hips were amazing. He was now gripping his own cock and those deep-throated moans were back, vibrating through his entire body and Jeff was going to…

“I’m coming, Craig,” he said, his voice cracking just a little. Unfortunately, Craig came too, all over him. And that was yuck. Very yuck. For lack of a suitable word. But he couldn’t move, that was a definite.

“What did we just do?” the Dean asked.

“I would assume you could describe it better than I could.”

“This is going to ruin our friendship isn’t it?”

“ _That’s_ your biggest worry right now? How about you get me a towel and we’ll go step by step.”

“I’m having a Big Gay Freakout,” the Dean said.

“I think I’m the one that’s supposed to have the Big Gay Freakout. Towel.”

“And… are you?”

“No.”

The Dean retrieved a towel and took a few ineffectual swipes at Jeff’s torso. “Let me do it, dammit!” Jeff said. “So, uh, you’re having a freakout?”

“A little.” The Dean covered himself with a sheet.

Jeff tossed the spent condom into a nearby trash can, hoping it wasn’t a receptacle for parasols or something. “Talk to me.”

“You know when you finally get something you really want? That you’ve wanted for a long time, but never thought you’d get?” The Dean wasn’t looking at him, at all.

“I guess so.”

“And so the anticipation is gone? The fantasy? And you think, okay, what next?”

“Pretty much sums up my entire love life,” Jeff admitted. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Well, I’m just wondering, how can I _ever_ have anything like _this_ again? What do I think about now, on my long commute home, or in the shower?”

“We have the same, five-minute commute.”

“Details, Jeffrey, details.” The Dean pulled the sheet up to his chin. “I’m just coming down from the aDEANalin rush.”

“You mean aDRENalin. Oh.” The Dean’s armor was slowly reappearing. Before long, he’d have a headdress, falsies and tap pants on. “Stop it. I know what you’re doing. You’re Deaning. And I won’t have it.” Jeff wrapped himself up in a blanket and stood up. “Let’s have coffee.”

“Coffee,” the Dean repeated.

“Comes from a plant, you grind the Deans, I mean beans, makes a delightful hot drink?” Jeff smiled.

“Because you’ve already been grinding the _Dean_.”

“Exactly.”

“Call me Craig when we’re alone,” the Dean said.

“I’ll try.”

Jeff started the coffee in the kitchenette and heard the opening salvo of “Wild One” from the stereo. The Dean – Craig – was so predictable. _“Hey I heard you were a wild one,”_ Jeff sang along. God, he was going to be wearing wigs soon at this rate.

Craig came into the kitchenette and flung his arms around Jeff in a ridiculously dramatic gesture. Jeff shrugged, only half trying to shake him off.

_“If I took you home, it'd be a home run,” Craig sang. “La la la, saddle me up and let’s begin…”_

“Aw, that’s sweet. Get off me,” Jeff said.

They sat and drank coffee, the Dean smiling soppily over his cup at Jeff.

“Rule number eleventy-one, no goo-goo eyes.”

“How many rules will there be?”

“A lot.”

“So as long as I follow the rules… we can do this again?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m still your Dean.”

“Yes,” Jeff said. He smiled. “Yes, you really are.”  



End file.
